[written on train from Milan to Verona, published later].  In the course of writing the Seville piece I realised I didn’t really want this to be a story of what I had for breakfast and how uncomfortable the hostel beds were;  I wanted to try, at least, to aim a little higher.  However, this is a travel blog, so here are some diarist thinkings and musings and stories of travelling rather than of travels:

 

1.  I lost my expensive, miniature, microfiber travel towel towel in Grenada having left it out to dry in the sun and, of course, forgetting it when I went back for my bag.  Since then I have been to Cordoba, Madrid, Toledo, Barcelona, Como, Domaso and Milan and have not missed it.  Bedsheets, it turns out, are remarkably versatile.  And they’re quick-drying, too.

 

2. My beloved fit flops have finally given up the ghost.  Since buying these at Champneys in 2011 they have proved a unique and panaceaic balm for the plantar fasciatis which otherwise induces deep, sharp pain in my heels after only a couple of hours of walking.  My catching my toe on an uneven paving slab yesterday, at the end of a lovely two hour hillside stroll over Como, finally did for the right one where the toe strap is joined to the sole.  They don’t owe me a penny, but I’d repair them out of sheer reciprocity, were it not for the wizened Alpine shoemaker who told me yesterday at Como that she was “not 100% but 1000%” sure they were beyond the repair of leather, glue, or man.  Fitflop.co.uk were out of stock but an Amazonian pair are winging their way towards me via a little FedEx account holder I know in Chesham Vale, and hopefully the two (three?) of us will find each other in Venice.

 

3. “Hostel” is a strangely broad term.  The pick of the bunch, in terms of Artistic Merit (Eye Rolling Category) has to be last night’s flophouse down a couple of decidedly rough Milanese backstreets.  The sign on the door was printed on A4 and affixed with sellotape, payment was strictly cash only, there was no toilet paper and at times no running water.  Were it to transmute (back?) into a crack den, that might well be classed as gentrification.  The Pension I booked into in Madrid had a full width mirror positioned where a headboard should be and I’m pretty sure rooms were available by the hour.  The room I was in the second time around in Cordoba was literally a foot larger, on all sides, than the double bed, and had no AC (like most) and only one socket, so choosing between charging my phone and running the standard-fan was the very Devil’s Alternative.  On the other hand, La Banda Rooftop Hostel in Seville was lovely and extremely welcoming, and the places in Granada and Barcelona were also big and professional.  I’ll just jot them all down while I remember, and so that I have a chance of remembering in the future.

Seville – La Banda

Cordoba – Osio

Grenada – Grenada Inn

Cordoba – Apartamentos Alberca Deluxe

Cordoba – Hotel Triumfo

Madrid – Pension Lemus

Barcelona – Hostel Sant Jordi Gracia

Como – Eco Hostel Respau

Domaso – Lake Como Beach Hostel

Milano – Hostel 3

Verona – B&B Re Lear

I think – not to leap to conclusions at this early stage – but I think my takeaway so far is that I don’t actually much enjoy the larger places even though they’re more professional.  With the smaller places you’re taking a much greater risk, but when you get lucky it’s perfect: Hostel Osio in Cordoba was beautiful, and to top it off I had a four bed dorm to myself with a private bathroom.  I could chat with the handful of other guests if and when I chose to, but felt under no social pressure to do so.  The little monastery in Respau near Como was like that too.  I am really enjoying the anonymity and total freedom of being on the road on my own, and when one stays at a big hostel it feels like living in a university dorm again, with all that goes with that.  In Seville, in Granada, in Barcelona, yes there was camaraderie and flirtation and company for lunch and dinner… but… there were also repetitive conversations and peer pressure and juvenalia and nosiness and delays and compromises and faux-amis.  I am a little older than most  – although many are mid-to-late-twenties so it’s not like I’m trying to bond with undergrads – but ultimately I guess I’m just not much of a people person.  c. f. travelling for several months on my own I suppose.  It goes in a sine wave though, after a few quiet out of the way places I’ll be ready for forty drunk Yanks and Aussies again.  Maybe in Naples.

 

4. I think dieting, which I still am, is helping me not to resent my lean budget.  In the absence of bathroom scales, I have drawn a line on the infinitely-variable belt I’m wearing, so I can see if I’m gaining or losing inches, even if I can’t measure pounds.  It’s on a country-by-country basis, and I am pleased to report that the “arrived in Italy” line is inside the “arrived in Spain” line, so it’s going in the right direction so far.  Dieting in Italy, were I to think about it, would be an unconscionable act of self-denial, but in truth I am trying to cram in so much [activity rather than food], and moving so swiftly from place to place, and am often so hot and sweaty from the heat and the walking and the pack, that I really only have the time or inclination for two small meals a day anyway.  Today’s lunch in Milan – of all places – was a plastic packet of salami with crosstini bought from a metro station vending machine for two euros and eaten on the train, washed down with a bottle of water recently refilled in the toilet. (Not from the toilet, you understand.  From a tap, at a sink, in the public lavatory).  But I’m not feeling the lack of the sit-down dinner and am only eating lightly when I do it – although I am enjoying wine and beer freely, not least because it’s often cheaper than the water.  There’s even a tour of the Valpollicella vineyards I’m thinking of taking… but again… £££.

 

5.  Bloody kindle just died on the metro in Milan.  Just stopped turning the page in the middle of reading.  “Action not actionable” or something.  If it stays dead I shall be heartbroken, I’d really got into the hang of it.  All open and being progressed roughly evenly, at the time of writing, are:

The Satanic Verses, Salman Rushdie

A Farewell To Arms, Ernest Hemingway

The Adventures of Don Quixote De La Mancha, Miguel de Cervantes

Ancient Greece, Thomas R Martin

The Lonely Planet Guide To Italy, various

Night Watch, Terry Pratchett.

Actually I’ve just finished the Discworld one, but I’d be varnishing the truth by omitting it.  Have also not long finished The Dogs of War by Freddie Forsyth, but to be fair they don’t take quite as much reading as Rushdie or Cervantes.  The Hemingway has picked up again I’m pleased to say after getting a bit bogged down in the rain and the farmhouses half way through.  Have really rediscovered reading… yay.